Concrete Angel
by madeleine68
Summary: Based on the song Concrete Angel. Please review!


Brianna hurried to school on a cold, wet Monday morning. She pulled her sweater tighter around her and started to run, knowing that if she was late one more time, her teacher would call her mother, and she did not want that. Her mother would surely punish her, and it was getting harder to hide the bruises as her mother became clumsier. She had already sat out of gym every day for the last three weeks, and would surely fail the subject if she missed one more class. Lately, she had taken to saying she was sick or hiding in the washroom rather than even go to class and face her gym teacher's questioning eyes.

She ran, panting, into the school just before the bell rang. She slowed to a walk as she went to her first grade classroom and hurried inside. Putting away her backpack, she sat down at her desk, hands clasped together like a princess, waiting for her teacher's instructions. The other children were talking and laughing, but Brianna was wary around kids her own age, and did not join in.

Ms. Johnson clapped her hands for silence. She saw Brianna sitting in her seat at the front of the room, looking uneasy, and gave her a smile. She had taken to paying more attention to Brianna recently, ever since she had come to school with a black eye and claimed she had fallen off her bike, even though she had told Ms. Johnson more than once that she didn't even know how to ride one.

Brianna smiled back halfheartedly and waited. Ms. Johnson told the children to come sit down and she would read them a story. Obediently, the group of six-year-olds sat down on the reading carpet and were enchanted by the book.

Brianna, though, was lost in her own little world. She was thinking about winter vacation. Today was the last day of school before Christmas break, and she wondered how she would ever survive without school, which had become her safe haven.

At recess time, Brianna was the last one out, as usual. She sat on a bench, watching the other children play, swinging her legs as six-year-olds do, and shivering due to the cold.

After school, Brianna was the last one to leave. She lingered so long that Ms. Johnson asked her if she'd like to stay and help her clean up the classroom for winter break.

Brianna smiled. "Okay," she said quietly.

Ms. Johnson smiled back, and they worked together for a few hours in silence, stacking chairs and cleaning up.

Finally, Ms. Johnson said, "Brianna, it's getting late. Won't your parents be wondering where you are?"

The little girl twirled a strand of her long red hair with her finger and shook her head.

"Did you tell them you would be staying late?"

"No, but they won't mind."

Ms. Johnson looked at Brianna carefully and changed the subject, bringing up something she had wanted to talk to the child about for weeks. "Brianna," she said slowly, "do you want to tell me where those bruises on your wrists came from?"

Brianna looked uncomfortable. "Oh, I just, um, hurt myself."

"Yes, it looks like it must hurt quite a bit." Ms. Johnson paused. "Brianna, you know that it's never okay for anyone to hurt you, and if they do, you can always come to me."

Brianna nodded and turned away.

Ms. Johnson was about to let it go when Brianna turned back to her, tears glistening in her big green eyes. "I can't do it anymore!" she burst out.

"Can't do what anymore, Brianna?" asked her teacher gently.

"Keep it a secret!"

Ms. Johnson sat down on top of a desk, preparing to sit for a while. "Can't keep what a secret anymore?"

Brianna looked at the ground, the fight seeming to drain out of her. "I can't tell you. You wouldn't understand, and then you wouldn't like me anymore."

"Why don't you try me? Because, Brianna, I can help you."

"Promise not to be mad?"

"Promise."

"And you can't tell anyone I told you."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Brianna. If you tell me you or someone else is being hurt, I have to tell someone. But Brianna, that person will be able to help you, and then the hurting would stop. You won't get into any trouble if you tell me that," her teacher assured her.

Brianna took a deep breath and braced herself. "I can't tell you – but I can show you." And she slowly rolled up her sleeve to reveal a series of red welts, black and blue bruises, and circular marks on her upper arm. Ms. Johnson put her hand over her mouth when she realized what they were – cigarette burns.

Brianna rolled her sleeve down again, looking frightened. "I promised not to tell, but now I did, and they'll hurt me more!" she whimpered.

"Brianna, who did this to you?" asked Ms. Johnson, struggling to keep her revulsion in check.

"Mommy and Byron – Mommy's boyfriend. But it's only because I'm bad and they're trying to make me better, and please, please, please don't tell. They'll just hurt me more. I promised!" Brianna was trembling as tears fell freely down her face.

"How do they hurt you, Brianna?" asked Ms. Johnson, knowing even then that it was enough; she should just go and give the poor child a hug and a ride home, do what she had to do and not cause her any more pain by asking her to relive the terror of the abuse, but unable to resist. "I know it's difficult for you to talk about, but I need you to tell me."

The child nodded and took a deep breath before launching into a quick and detailed account of the beatings, and how the leather belt left welts on her arms back and legs and the hairbrush bruised her body. How they would punch her, kick her, and smack her around for no reason at all. She told her teacher how her mother and her mother's boyfriend would lock her in the basement for days at a time, deprive her of food and water, and belittle her at every opportunity.

When she finished, Ms. Johnson herself was struggling not to cry for the pain this poor child had endured. She took a moment to compose herself, and when she could speak, she said, "Brianna, this is certainly not your fault. You are not bad at all – in fact, you are one of the brightest, kindest, sweetest children I've ever known. And it's not okay for them to hurt you. I need to make a report about this to Children's Aid, Brianna. They'll send someone over to the school right after winter break and you can tell him or her everything you've just told me, and he or she will help you and protect you. You'll just need to be brave and wait another two weeks. But you're strong, Brianna. And things will be just fine for you. You'll get through it. Now come here and give me a hug."

Brianna stayed where she was. She hesitated, and then said softly, "Ms. Johnson? There's more. But please, don't think too badly of me. I didn't mean to do it. He tells me I'm bad, that I ask for it, but you said I'm not. So please don't be mad. Byron, he comes into my room at night, Ms. Johnson. And he – he touches me where he shouldn't. You were teaching us about good touch/bad touch and it's a bad touch."

Ms. Johnson nodded for her to go on.

"He touches me in my private area. And sometimes he – he puts his pee-pee in mine," whispered Brianna.

Ms. Johnson felt as if she were going to be sick. She had heard of these children, of course – ones who were sexually abused, but she had never met one quite like Brianna. She had had children tell her of abuse before, but nothing ever like this. How could anyone do this to poor Brianna – such a wonderful, beautiful, sweet little six-year-old?

She didn't want to let Brianna go home, but she knew she had to. But then, what else could she offer this child who had been hurt so badly by the ones who were supposed to love her most? She did the only thing she knew. "Brianna, you do need to go home. I wish I could protect you, but at this point, I can't. But if anyone tries to hurt you again, you can always say no, and you can call 911. They will help you, sweetheart, if you need it. You have done nothing wrong, Brianna, and you did a very brave thing by telling me. Thank you for trusting me. Remember, sweetie, no matter what anyone says, you are brave and you are wonderful and good and special, and you don't ever deserve to be treated this way."

Brianna nodded gravely, with the air of someone who has seen too much and an expression that made Ms. Johnson sad to see on a child – one that said she already knew the world was not a kind place.

Ms. Johnson drove Brianna home and watched as she let herself into her house. It was a small house, but who was she to judge? She drove herself home, worrying about the child, wondering if she would be safe.

*****

That night, when Byron came into Brianna's room, she looked him right in the eye. "It's not okay for you to do this to me," she told him bravely. "I'm not bad, and you don't love me. What you do is wrong."

He laughed and smacked her across the face so hard that she cried out in pain. "You are bad, though, you spoiled brat." He grabbed her up and shoved her roughly to the floor.

Brianna whimpered. "I'm not . . ." She remembered what her teacher had said. "I'm brave and wonderful and good and special, and I've done nothing wrong. I don't ever deserve to be treated this way."

"Oh yeah?" Byron raised his hand – and then the world went black.

*****

A small statue stood in a shaded place in the corner of a cemetery. Brianna Jones: 2003-2009. An angel girl whose short life was clouded by abuse. She was gone forever, but now she was in a better place. The world would miss her, but she was safe. Watching down from the sky, she had gotten her wish – to escape from the cruel world, and now, finally, she would be dancing with the angels.


End file.
